Sunrise
by FranklyMyDear89
Summary: The heat of her skin still radiated from him, and he felt a stirring in him that only Carla had been able to bring out. He clenched his hand into a fist at that thought. He wouldn't destroy her the way he had his wife.  ONESHOT. Language, adult situations


The predawn light quietly drowned the glow of the embers slowly dying in the pit at the top of the ridge. The hills to the east were still grey, a vague obscurity on the horizon, blocking the river and the evil that lay beyond it from view. Cacti dotted the plains until they disappeared in the haze of a sandstorm whipping across a dry lakebed. Various critters scurried about, their day already in full swing with the pale blush of the sky. A solitary figure stood with his back to the smoldering embers, gazing at the desert unfolded below him.

He surveyed the land with a sharp eye, hardly requiring the battered, scoped rifle at his side. The firearm had seen him through a lot over the years, and while he was deadly with most weapons, he couldn't bear to part with the old girl and her overly destructive nature. She was the only thing that felt good in his hands anymore.

The man lowered his eyes from the landscape, staring instead at the rough palm of his hand. He almost couldn't believe he'd ever been capable of gentleness when he looked at it. Such a hand was meant to be used in a fight, or to wield a weapon. The blood alone that stained it was enough to keep him from touching anything else. He knew it didn't show outwardly, that to all else he looked like a man wearing army fatigues and a red beret, but he was still covered in it. No one would want to come in contact with person so soaked in death. Not for the first time, he considered setting out into the desert alone.

"You stare at your hand a lot," came a soft voice to his left. He lowered his arm, looking back at the scene below the ridge, keeping her in his peripheral. He didn't tell her that she was getting better; he hadn't even heard her stir, let alone get up from her bedroll and come over. That voice might sound like a woman that needed the praise or reassurance, but he knew better. She was probably the toughest thing in the Mojave, and considering the beasts that roamed it, that was saying a lot. "Does it hurt?"

He looked at her directly now, for a moment not understanding the reference. "It's fine," he grunted, shifting his weight to his right leg, distancing himself from her without actually moving. If she asked, he would claim it was because neither of them had bathed since they'd left the outpost to the south, although in truth he couldn't even smell himself as they stood together.

"Counting fingers then?" she asked with a chuckle, tucking her hair behind her ear as the wind swept over them, already heated for the day to come. It was disconcerting, seeing such an angelic face and neat, fine hair setting atop a beaten set of combat armor. Harder to believe that a few scant months ago she was running around as a courier; she seemed much too strong a person to settle for being a delivery girl. Then again, she did take just about any job offered her. He wondered vaguely, if anyone could have said no to her before she'd been shot by that bastard; the puckered circle near her hairline was the only flaw on her that couldn't be washed away with the rest of the grime on her face.

"Something like that," he mumbled, looking away. Frustration built up in him, bringing his self-hatred to the fore again. He should be able to trust her now. They'd risked their lives for each other hundreds of times already, and he'd explained quite a bit of his past to her without her running away from him in fear or disgust. She'd understood about Carla, but that was just the last nail in the coffin; he'd damned himself long before his wife had been taken from him.

She sighed heavily, voicing her own frustration with him, but she underestimated his stubbornness. It would take a hell of a lot more than a sigh to pry the truth out of him. He inwardly winced at the thought of actually giving her the whole story. At first, he'd simply not wanted to talk about it, arguing within himself that she would turn hostile when she knew what he really was. Now… she'd just get that hurt look in her eyes, like she was disappointed in him. He knew he cared too much when that thought hurt worse than keeping secrets from her. "You really need to loosen up, Boone," she said quietly. "Not everything is hellfire and judgment, you know."

"We're not talking about that, Nicole," he said, gritting his teeth and turning away. Anger flushed his skin. Why did she have to insist on dredging up his past? Wasn't it enough, just having him watch her back? "So drop it."

She clapped her hand on his shoulder roughly, spinning him around to face her, a stern look in her eyes. Before he'd really thought about it, years of training and instinct had her on the ground, one of his hands around her wrists and his knee pressing down on her back. She grunted, turning her face to get it out of the dirt, spitting some of it out in the process. "You're such a jackass," she coughed out. "I wasn't even fucking _talking_ about your past. I was just trying to joke with you and all you could say was, 'Something like that'?"

Slowly he lessened his grip on her wrists, not sure if she really _would_ be looking for a fight now. She wrenched them away, and the moment he'd removed his knee she rolled away from him, putting her back to him when she sat up. He waited for her to say something, his pride keeping him from a proper apology.

"Sure, I'd like to know what the hell happened to turn you into the hard-ass you are, but I'd rather you just let go and laugh with me sometimes. I knew why you were looking at your hand," she said, holding up her own, still facing away from him. "I looked at mine the same way the first time I killed someone. Guess I stupidly thought I could lighten the mood. But don't worry; I won't make that mistake again."

She stood quickly, shouldering her pack and stomping out the last of the embers. Boone stayed crouched, his face lowered in regret. He hadn't meant to shut her out so completely like that. His reaction spoke volumes of how little he trusted her to be near him. He looked down at his hand again, this time realizing that was the first time he'd ever touched her. The heat of her skin still radiated from him, and he felt a stirring in him that only Carla had been able to bring out. He clenched his hand into a fist at that thought. He wouldn't destroy her the way he had his wife.

He looked up, seeing that Nicole was staring down at him now, offering her hand to help him up. He hesitated. If he didn't take her hand, it would make things worse between them; he might as well just spit in her face at that point. But to touch her again… he wasn't sure he could. If he should.

She rolled her eyes, reaching down and making the decision for him. Grabbing his hand, she hauled him to his feet, but didn't release him once they were both upright. "Am I really that scary?" she asked, and normally he would have thought she was joking again, but the look in her eye was quite serious.

Boone swallowed thickly. He tried to withdraw his hand from hers, but she tightened her grip and looked him in the eye. That familiar feeling welled up again, threatening to drown him. "I'm not the kind of person you want to get close to," he finally said, trying to make it clear to her that she didn't want him to finish what she seemed to be starting. "I've got too much blood on my hands," he admitted, turning away again. He could still see the battle – no, the massacre – like it was yesterday. He'd thought that perhaps loving Carla could wash the stains away, but he'd been wrong, and she'd paid dearly for it.

Nicole pulled her hand away as though burned, making him flinch, but at least she got the idea. If she kept her distance, just let him spot for her and keep an eye on her six, then it wouldn't be so bad when his punishment finally caught up with him. If his wife couldn't save him, then neither could she, and it wasn't even worth trying. He closed his eyes, remembering his first time with Carla, trying to explain that he'd dirty her. She'd smiled at him, then gently kissed the palms of his hands, whispering that it would be alright. He couldn't hope for another love like that.

The sound of steel dragging across a sheath brought his attention back to the present situation. He squared off to face her, surprised that she would be mad enough to challenge him. Perhaps he should let her kill him and just get it over with. It wasn't like he had the strength to add her to his long list of sins; if one of them had to die today, it would be him.

She raised her knife, but not to slash or stab at him. Instead, she brought the blade down across her other hand, slicing it open diagonally along her palm. The blood quickly began to seep out of the wound, dripping to the thirsty desert ground at her feet. "What are you doing?" Boone exclaimed, stepping forward and reaching for a doctor's bag.

Nicole moved her hand out of his reach, but kept it in sight. "I'm showing you that you're not the only one with blood on their hands," she stated calmly. "You don't have to worry about tainting me; I'm quite good at doing that myself."

Boone blinked, staring agape at her, the bag under his arm completely forgotten. Behind her, the sun had finally cleared the hills in the distance, lighting the desert sky in a flare of warm yellow and soft pink. She reached forward, taking hold of his hand again even as it slipped with the slickness of her blood. He looked down at their joined hands, still awestruck at the turn this conversation had taken. He couldn't find words; his mind seemed content with doing little more than keep him standing.

"Now we're both tainted," she said quietly, slowly sliding her hand out of his and taking the doctor's bag from under his arm. She efficiently bandaged it and returned the bag to her pack. "Let's hit the Sunset Sarsaparilla Headquarters on our way into town when we get closer to the Strip. I think we have enough star-caps for Festus now. I counted fifty-three last night," she said, as though the last few minutes hadn't occurred.

Boone didn't move, his eyes still locked on his now literally bloody hand. She'd… tainted _him_? A damned man? Was that even possible? He supposed so; the proof was glaring red as it dried on his skin. But what did it mean? That he was allowed something? That he was being… _forgiven_?

"Earth to Boone," Nicole said, waving her non-bandaged hand in front of his face. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't think a little blood would freak you out that bad – "

Lightning fast, Boone reached out and grabbed her waist, pulling her to him and pressing his mouth hard against hers. She squeaked in surprise but quickly melted into the touch, kissing him back just as hard. His head spun; this was so different than it had been with Carla. With her, their embraces were tender and slow, but as his tongue slipped into Nicole's mouth, he realized that with them it would be frenzied and harsh. Fitting, for two people destined for Hell.

"It's been a while," she managed to gasp out as he unclasped her armor, tossing it uncaringly to the ground. She ripped his shirt off, flinging it in an unknown direction before reaching for his belt.

"It's been longer," he admitted, pushing her back towards the bedroll. It was rough and scratchy from its time spent baking under the sun everyday and the sand that embedded itself in the fabric. Nicole didn't complain, though, just held him tighter as he climbed atop her. She miraculously did away with his pants before he'd fully mapped out her collarbone with his tongue, his hands pushing up her undershirt with his need for more skin under his hands. He pulled back suddenly, and stared down at her, the side of her face and torso now colored from her own blood, which he'd transferred as he touched her. God, she was beautiful.

Nicole ran her hands firmly over Boone's chest, as if to determine the solidity of it. Grabbing hold of the back of his neck, she pulled him back down and wrapped her legs around him. He had to admit she was good; from the feel of it, she'd gotten them both fully naked, and his mind wasn't bothering to figure out how she'd done it without him noticing.

Boone hardly noticed as the sun began its climb across the sky, much more concerned with the heat below him than above. It was a fire that would either consume him or make him stronger every time he delved into it.

But then again, what about the Mojave wasn't like that?

A/N: So I wasn't going to post anything Fallout related, but of all my scribbles about Boone and my courier, I couldn't resist posting this one. Boone is such a haunted character, I can't help but want to save him. Even if he is kind of a jackass about it xD but given the shit he's gone through, I think we can forgive him for that.


End file.
